


-2c And Below

by Call_Me_Clarence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Frostbite, Hurt/Comfort, Kat's Johnlock Xmas Challenge 2019, descriptions of frostbite, descriptions of medical treatment for frostbite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Me_Clarence/pseuds/Call_Me_Clarence
Summary: Sherlock gets Frostbite while out on a case. John blames himself. Sherlock blames the snow. No one blames Sherlock. Except maybe John does. Just a little. Or a lot.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	-2c And Below

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [-2 по Цельсию и ниже](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22315228) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Unbetaed
> 
> *shows up five days late with Starbucks and a Santa hat* uhh...sup?
> 
> Written for Kat's Johnlock Xmas Challenge, Day 10. The prompt was Frostbite.
> 
> This can be read as pre-slash or as friends. Whatever floats your h/c boat. There is some description of frostbite and medical care for said frostbite. If that's squicky for you then please read with caution (or don't read). 
> 
> If that's all out of the way and settled, then let's get on to it! Allons-y!

John angrily finished putting away his medical supplies back into his doctors bag, knowing he was just going to have to get them back in a few hours anyway. Sherlock’s bandages needed frequent changing at this point in his recovery. More often since Sherlock continued to sully them, putting both his health, and John’s patience, on the line. 

Sherlock was slowly recovering from frostbite in his right hand, all his digits had been affected. He’d had hemorrhagic blisters that had to be drained in hospital. His fingers all a dark purple. They were still waiting to see if they’d have to go in for surgery. To… to--

Sherlock might lose his fingers, and it was all John’s fault. He was a Doctor. He should’ve been paying more attention. He should’ve known to watch Sherlock more closely when John had noticed he hadn’t brought his gloves. Should’ve told Sherlock to stop after he’d been rooting around in the snow for some clue or other past the fifteen mark. Hell, he shouldn’t have even let Sherlock do that in the first place. He should’ve demanded they stop for the night and come back in the morning. He should’ve… 

Sherlock paid attention to everything else but himself, his ‘transport’ as he calls it. No, that was supposed to be John’s job. And John had messed up. 

By the time he’d recognized something wrong with Sherlock’s hands, his skin had already begun to change color. John prayed it was just frostnip, but as they got Sherlock in the cab and John slowly unwrapped his scarf from Sherlock’s right hand, he’d seen the fingers were the same purple as the man’s shirt.. 

Sherlock said it didn’t hurt. 

In the hospital Sherlock had been taken in by the burn unit. He was treated, but then began to develop blisters that had to be dealt with. Afterwards they’d wrapped his hands in bandages and then it became a waiting game. With a normal burn, you’d find out fairly quickly whether or not it would become necessary to amputate. With frostbite they had more time to wait it out, more time to agonize on whether or not Sherlock would pull through with his hand intact.

John turned to watch Sherlock as he lay on the couch, pouting. There was a lamp above his head, and it’s strong direct light made the tips of Sherlock hair look as if they were on fire, or made from strands of sunlight. It gave his jawbone a dramatic shadow, eyes as well. John clenched his teeth together. The prat had no right to look like a damned supermodel when he’d just been seriously injured. Even in harsh light he still looked absolutely flawless. It pissed John off.

“I’ll go get your painkillers.” John grunted, getting up from where he’d been kneeling between the coffee table and the couch to tend to Sherlock’s hand, and made his way into the kitchen to get Sherlock’s meds and a glass of water. “Here.” he said upon his return, holding the pills out for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock had his hands lightly posed together in a triangle of concentration against his bottom lip. He opened one eye to stare up at John, before closing it again and letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“I don’t really see the point.” he said. “Seeing as you’re not going to give me a dosage that would be anywhere near ‘fun’.”

“It’s not about having fun, it’s about taking your damned medicine. About keeping ahead of the pain--”

“I told you, it doesn’t hurt.” 

John worked his jaw and he grinded his back teeth together. There was every chance Sherlock was telling the truth, and that the Frostbite had destroyed the nerves in the area, leading to the numbness Sherlock describe. Or was just being a pratt about taking his medicine, not realizing that they were currently keeping the pain at bay, and if he missed a dose he’d start to bloody well realize it.

“Just take your pills!” 

John didn’t mean to shout, but he wasn’t about to apologize for it either. Sherlock was being completely blase about his injury, and downright harmful to his recovery, trying constantly to use the hand as if it wasn’t suffering from what was the equivalent of fourth degree burns. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he gave John a carefully calculated look, holding his gaze. After a moment he held out his hand for the pills.

John dropped them into his palm, waited ‘til he saw Sherlock pop them in his mouth, then handed him the water. As soon as the water glass was out of his hand, John turned around and headed for his coat.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked quickly, sitting up on the couch.

“Out.” John said roughly, jerking on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck before heading through the door of their flat, slamming it and the main entrance to 221 closed as he made his way into the street. 

He blended in easily with everyone around him, as the wind blew harshly, carrying flurries of snow. Everyone had there head ducked, marching forward in an agitated state. All of them wishing they were somewhere else. Only John was out here solely because he wanted to be.

It was always like this when Sherlock got injured. He just would never take it seriously. Even suggested that John was being boring for doing so, or calling John a mother hen, saying John was overreacting. John was a Doctor! He thinks that _he would be the one to know_ if he were just overreacting vs giving solid medical advice!

And so John would get in a massive strop, and end up having to take a walk in order to calm down before he throttled his patient.

John didn’t know how long he walked before enough adrenaline burned off for him to really feel how cold he was, but he was a pretty decent ways away from Baker Street. 

His hands burned from cold. He turned his back to the frozen wind and blew hot breath into the cup of his hands, trying to warm them back up a little, rubbing them together to encourage blood flow. He’d forgotten his gloves. Just like Sherlock had done. 

Fuck.

Maybe _he_ was also being a massive pratt, not just Sherlock.

As mad as John was at Sherlock’s behaviour, he should have taken a moment to analyze it. ‘ _You see, but do not observe’_. John hated when the git was right. 

Even though John could really sympathize with what Sherlock was going through, and cared about the bloody idiot more than he’d like to admit, this was still Sherlock’s hand that was injured. Sherlock’s hand that was at risk. John couldn’t begin to guess just what Sherlock was feeling right now. But he suddenly realized that fear was probably a big part of that feeling. Sherlock always got petulant and argumentative when he was afraid. 

John should have seen the signs.

Through blowing winds, threat of ice, and snow, John ran as fast as he could back to Baker street. He just hoped Sherlock would still be there when he arrived.

A danger night. Tonight was a danger night. Drugs could seriously inhibit several of Sherlock’s medications from working properly. He might actually lose the hand if he decided to do something truly stupid, like go and shoot up to cut the pain he may have very well been hiding, hiding to lull John into a false sense of security so he’d have no problem marching right out of the flat, giving Sherlock plenty of time to march right out as well and wonder into the next dark alley, into the waiting hands of whatever pusher or dealer he ran into.

“Sherlock!” John called as soon as he was in the main entrance, gasping and panting, but not slowing down any as he ran up the stairs to 221b.

“Sherlock.” he sighed out, seeing the detective still sitting on the couch. John bent over, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath.

It took him a moment to notice something was off.

“You okay?” he asked gently, heading over to sit down by Sherlock on the couch.

He hadn’t seen the violin at first, hunched over as Sherlock was, but now he saw that he had most of it in his lap, the neck resting gingerly across his bandaged hand, the bow in the other.

Sherlock whispered something that John couldn’t hear. He moved in closer and ducked his head so his ear was closer to Sherlock’s mouth, “Sorry?”

“I can’t play.” Came Sherlock’s hoarse reply. He sounded as if he’d been crying, but he wouldn’t lift his head so John could see his face.

“We’ll fix you up. You’ll be able to play again before you know it.” John reassured, putting a hand on Sherlocks shoulder. “This is temporary.”

“Is it?” Sherlock turned to face John, and it nearly broke the Doctor’s heart.

Sherlock looked so defeated, so saddened and scared. The vulnerability John saw made Sherlock look ten years younger. John wanted nothing more to envelop him in his arms and not let him go again until his hand had healed up properly and he wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.

“We’ll know soon.” John answered honestly. No use lying to the detective, he’d deduce it straight away, adding insult to injury.

Sherlock nodded his head and a single tear fell, landing on his lap to darken his pajama bottoms.

John couldn’t take it anymore.

“C’mere.” he said as he pulled Sherlock closer to him. He helped the man move his violin and bow over to the coffee table, before arranging them both so he could wrap Sherlock into a hug, one hand rubbing over the taller man’s back and pulling him in close, the other hand finding its way up to Sherlock’s curls, to pet through the hair in a soothing rhythm.

  
  


Sherlock sobbed into his shoulder, and John comforted him the best he could. No matter what happened, John thought, they’d make it through this. As long as they had each other, they could make it through anything.

  
  


The End

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think Sherlock keeps all his fingers... but it's really up to you guys to decide that.
> 
> Been writing a lot of fluff and humor lately. Had to get my angst out before it turned terminal. And so now you all get to suffer instead :D ta!


End file.
